


Take Me Back to the Start of You

by TheRealDanniX



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Little bit of angst, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:54:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23501920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRealDanniX/pseuds/TheRealDanniX
Summary: Jaskier gets taken back to his family home by armed guards. His Witcher wants him back and goes to any length to do it. What will he do when he realizes there's more to the Bard then it seemed?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 23
Kudos: 258





	1. Realization

**Author's Note:**

> This started as Aladin but with The Witcher and then it sorta spiraled into this. 
> 
> If you like what you read drop a comment or kudos.  
> Feedback is the lifeblood of this quarantined writer

Geralt hated wearing a glamour even more than he hated seeing them. He knew what he looked like and the fact that the face staring back at him was not his disturbed him. Yennefer eyed him with an amused quirk to her perfectly painted lips. “Not that I don’t enjoy how you usually look, but I have to say this is quite a nice glamour.” He glared at her. “Now then, Witcher, you asked for this, need I remind you.” He huffed as he pulled the enchanted cuff off his wrist, feeling an unreasonable sense of pride when the scars on his arms became visible again.

“How much do I owe you?” he growled.

“A favor and a reason,” she declared.

“I’ve already told you why,” he hissed, scowling deeper.

“To blend in at some noble’s betrothal, but why are you going to one? You hate parties and you hate nobles.” Her violet eyes scanned him as she folded her arms across her chest. _Not all nobles,_ he found himself thinking.

“After,” he grunted, taking his things. She watched him for a moment before finally relenting and stepping out of the path to the door.

“Fine, but remember, a glamour only hides what you look like, not who you sound like or how your skin feels so if you’re going on some demented chase after your wayward bard, it would be better if you went without.” There was humor in her voice that made the Witcher stop moving. “Why did he run away this time?”

“He didn’t,” Geralt snapped. Then he left, taking Roach and starting on the path to Lettenhove. His mind wandered to the last time he had seen the bard.

_Jaskier was resting peacefully under the only tree in the meadow, plucking absently at his lute. His red doublet was unbuttoned showing off his grey chemise. His brown hair flickered in the wind. For once, he was exactly where Geralt had told him to be, waiting on the Witcher just outside the city of Oxenfurt. They had set up this meeting months prior when Geralt had gone to Kaer Morhen to pass the winter training Ciri. The bard was still too far away to have noticed the white-haired man approaching. Coming from the city was a small band of soldiers dressed in red and gold. The wind took their words, but the implication was clear when one seized Jaskier’s lute and smashed it against the tree. Thankfully, it was not the elven lute that the bard held dear, but the other he tended to travel with. Jaskier bolted up, stumbling back away from the soldier, clearly not happy about the proceedings. Another soldier grabbed the bard’s arm. This time Geralt could hear what was said._

_“Come with us, Lord Pankratz.”_

_“Lord Pankratz is my father,” Jaskier snapped. “And I’ll not be going anywhere. You lot, however, should be on your way before my friend arrives. I doubt he’ll take kindly to you manhandling me.”_

_“Lady Pankratz sent us to collect you,” the soldier said, tightening his grip on the bard’s arm. “Your father is dead.” Jaskier stopped trying to twist out of the grasp on his arm. Something strange passed across his face as it twisted into a sneer._

_“Good riddance,” he hissed. Geralt was close enough that he could hear the younger man’s heartbeat. He could also see someone step from within the pack of soldiers and smell the chaos that wrapped the woman. She was nearly a foot shorter than Jaskier with blonde hair carefully braided._

_“Now Julian, is that any way to talk about your father?” she asked. The mage tilted her head. Then she touched his temple with a freckled hand and Jaskier sagged into the waiting arms of the soldier gripping him. A portal opened and swallowed the whole group. Geralt urged Roach to go faster, but the portal was closed before he could reach the tree._

From there, it had taken only a few uncomfortable conversations with Jaskier’s friends in Oxenfurt to find out that his bard was actually Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. On his way to the small lands, he heard tell of a betrothal. All hope falling when a barmaid confirmed it was for the new Lord Pankratz. From there, he had formed a plan. Now he could only hope it would work. Just outside the walls of the Pankratz estate, he found a spot of woods where he could easily hide Roach. Then he changed into the formal wear he had acquired from Yennefer along with the glamour. The leather cuff on his wrist looked odd with the black doublet he was wearing. He tucked a dagger in his boot and had two more sheathed and tied around his waist. He pulled his now brown looking hair back and tied it with a thin strip of black cloth. Then he slipped into the castle, blending into a large group of nobility as they wandered into the manor. It was strange how well the glamour seemed to work. No one paid him any mind as he followed the crowd to the banquet hall. It looked much like the last banquet he had been to, except among those seated at the head table was Jaskier. Seeing him was like taking a clean breath of air after being underwater for months. Even if the bard looked as unhappy as the Witcher had ever seen him. He was wearing a tightly fitted golden doublet, buttoned all the way up with a red sash drawn across it. His blue eyes scanned the faces around the room absently. They passed over Geralt as though he wasn’t there.

Carefully, the Witcher worked his way toward the raised dais where his bard sat. To his left, sat an older woman with white hair braided carefully away from her harsh features. She had the same blue eyes, but they were cold and scanned the crowd with judgement. To the other side of Jaskier was a woman closer to his age, though still older, with the same brown hair pulled up into a strange-looking bun decorated with metal flowers. While Geralt watched, the women took turns whispering to and frowning at his bard. Geralt frowned back at them. At some point, Jaskier seemed to decide he had enough because he rose from his seat and stormed off the dais, running directly into Geralt. Instinctively, both men stepped back and their eyes met. Geralt opened his mouth but no words came out.

If it weren’t for the enchanted cuffs on Jaskier’s wrists he would have left the manor weeks ago. Seated on the dais, watching the wealthy families filter in felt more like torture than any night spent sleeping on the cold hard floor of a forest. To make matters worse, the cuffs prevented him from disobeying the orders that fell so freely from his mother and sister. The whole evening had so far consisted of the two of them muttering insulting words when no one else was near. The last straw had actually not been directed at Jaskier but was more than enough to set him off.

“I see that Lord Farnsworth is here tonight. I’m surprised he dare show his face after he how he dealt with that creature a few months ago,” his sister hissed. “I heard he called for a witcher.”

“Dreadful creatures. Nearly as monstrous as the things they fight,” his mother muttered. “He would have been better off sending for troops.” Jaskier wanted to respond, but he was under orders from his mother that he would not speak to her or his sister.

“I heard that Farnsworth hired the Butcher,” his sister tittered. She was right about that, but Jaskier couldn’t keep himself from flinching at the title he had worked so hard to erase. He had been there for that contract, though he hadn’t gone anywhere near Lord Farnsworth, not when he could so easily be recognized.

“He’s the worst of them,” his mother scoffed. Jaskier shoved his chair back and stormed off the dais. He wasn’t looking where he was going, and he ran directly into someone’s chest. He stumbled back and took in the man before him. He had green eyes that softened when they met Jaskier’s blue ones. He had long light brown hair pulled back away from his face. The man was only a few inches taller than Jaskier, but he had a presence that made him feel much larger. Not unlike a certain white-haired friend. In short, the man before him opening and closing his mouth was gorgeous.

“Sorry about that,” Jaskier said, flashing a smile that he almost felt. “I must watch where I’m going. I’m Julian.” Damn the cuffs. He didn’t want this beautiful stranger calling him that. Another order from his mother. “So glad you could come to our court. Which of the fine maidens did you travel with?”

“I didn’t come with any maiden,” the man grunted. His voice was low and gravelly and so much like Geralt’s.

“Then you must have come to enjoy the fine food or company.” Jaskier winked. The man’s mouth twitched slightly. “I don’t believe I’ve caught your name, good sir.” The man was silent for a moment, dark green eyes scanning Jaskier’s face. Before he could respond, Jaskier’s mother ruined it.

“Julian, come back to the table, dear,” she called, just loud enough that she could be heard where he was standing, not three feet from the dais.

“Ah well, another time.” Jaskier bowed slightly to the man, before giving in to the pull emanating from the cuffs, drawing him back to his seat. The man grabbed one of his wrists, turning him back around.

“Do you trust me?” the gruff voice whispered. For some reason that Jaskier couldn’t have explained, he nodded. It might have been how the man’s voice sounded. Or how familiar it felt when their eyes met. Or the rough hand on his wrist that spoke of strength and skill and safety. The corners of the man’s mouth twitched up, threatening a smile. At the same time, the pull from the cuffs became painful, physically drawing him back to the dais. The man released him. “Then trust that I’ll get you out.” He stepped back and let Jaskier return to his seat. The bard felt even more miserable than he had when the banquet started. He only hoped that whoever this man was, he would keep his word. Then the Lords started coming forward, presenting their daughters like prizes.

When Geralt wrapped a hand around Jaskier’s wrist he felt his medallion hum. The bard was under some kind of spell. He should have known. That would be the only thing keeping Jaskier from his freedom. From the Witcher and adventure. He barely kept himself from growling as Jaskier rejoined the two women on the dais. He ignored the proceedings as the work of the betrothal started and set to searching for the mage he had seen when Jaskier had been taken. It didn’t take long to find her, though it was made more difficult since he hadn’t seen her face. The mage had separated herself from the crowds, watching the dais with a frown. He recognized the careful braiding in her blonde hair. Freckles dotted her skin, decorating her nose and cheeks like snow. She was stiff and didn’t seem to notice as the Witcher approached her. Not until he grabbed her around the waist, clamping one hand over her mouth, and pulled her out of the light, into a dark corner of the room. Her brown eyes widened in fear.

“You’ll answer my questions, fully and honestly or I will draw one of my daggers and I’ll pry answers from you that way,” Geralt growled. He didn’t dare try to use Axii on the mage. “If you yell, I will kill you and bring my own mage in to fix what you’ve done. Nod if you understand.” The mage nodded, the stench of fear growing stronger. “What have you done to Jaskier?” Geralt removed his hand.

“I-I don’t know a Jaskier,” she breathed. Her entire body shook with terror.

“Lord Julian.” Geralt pressed closer to the mage.

“Julian? Only what I was instructed to. Obedience and binding. So, he cannot disobey Lady Pankretz or her daughter and he cannot leave.”

“How do I lift it?” The mage hesitated. Her eyes flicked to the rest of the banquet hall. “Tell me how to lift the spell,” Geralt growled deeply.

“The cuffs! His cuffs. I enchanted his cuffs. Anyone else can take them off,” she yelped, pressing back against the wall. “Please, I won’t tell anyone. Just don’t hurt me.” Her voice never rose above a whisper.

“If you try to stop me, you will regret it.” Geralt glared down at her. Then he stepped away and left her trembling against the wall. She must not have been much of a mage. Music in the hall resumed as, presumably, the business of pairing off his bard was paused. Geralt slipped quietly around the edge of the room, bringing himself back to the dais, which was surprisingly empty. Jaskier was pacing behind the dais, casting his eyes around every so often, as if looking for someone. His eyes landed on Geralt and they brightened slightly.

“Well hello again, good sir. Now that we have a break in this tedious affair, perhaps I could get your name,” Jaskier chuckled. He still wasn’t as happy or cheerful he usually was around Geralt, but this was a grand improvement on earlier in the evening. Geralt extended his hand to the bard, who took it without question. Without talking, he pulled Jaskier closer to him and ripped the cuffs off his wrists. Jaskier froze. He looked up at Geralt with wide eyes.

“Do you trust me?” Geralt asked, watching the other’s face carefully. Jaskier nodded. “Then follow me.” He took one of the bard’s hands and tried to guide him around the edges of the hall as quickly as possible. Jaskier, thankfully, didn’t speak or draw attention to himself. He simply stumbled after the older man. They didn’t run into trouble until they reached the gardens that Geralt had entered through. Several guards tried to stop them from leaving, raising their weapons. “Stay behind me.” Geralt drew the two daggers at his waist and glared at the guards.

Jaskier was convinced that he had lost his mind. He was following a strange man, who was clearly stronger than him, out of his mother’s manor in secret. Yes, the man had removed the cursed cuffs, but it was just as likely that this man was intending to kidnap him and ransom him to his mother as he was to be simply rescuing him. More likely, actually, since the only one who might know that Jaskier was in distress was Geralt, and the Witcher certainly wouldn’t be concerned enough to be looking for him yet. The White Wolf was likely far from the manor seeking at some monster or another, figuring that his bard had merely gotten tired of waiting or got enlisted for Jaskier still wasn’t sure why he trusted the man so much until they ran into the guards. Three of them stood in between Jaskier and freedom (kidnapping?). They yelled and drew their swords. The man drew two daggers from his waist and shoved Jaskier behind him. Then the guards had charged. The man moved with more speed than any other person Jaskier had seen. He gracefully dodged swords and disarmed the guards, striking out with the flat of his blades. The way he moved and fought was inhuman. Even as he fought fiercely, he was also careful, making sure that his blows drew little blood. When the man stood over three disarmed, unconscious guards and looked back at the bard, he knew. “Geralt?” Jaskier breathed. The Witcher smirked. Thousands of questions bubbled under his skin as he stared into green eyes.

“Later.” He took his bard’s hand and pulled him towards the gate. He was guided around the wall of the manor into the woods on the east side. Deep in the woods where she wouldn’t have been found was a beautiful chestnut mare with a white strip.

“Roach!” Jaskier exclaimed. The mare headbutted him in recognition, sniffing his doublet searching for the sugar cubes he usually carried with him. “I’m afraid I don’t have any gifts for you today, but you are certainly a gift to me.” He turned back to his Witcher, who still did not look like himself. “Thank you. I’m not sure I would have been able to get out without you.” He inclined his head.

“Later. We need to get out of this area.” Geralt walked past Jaskier and mounted his horse. Then he held out his hand to the bard. Jaskier hastily took it and allowed himself to be hoisted into the saddle.

His bard was surprisingly quiet as they rode. Once Geralt decided that they were far enough away from Lettenhove, the moon was high in the sky. He guided Roach off the road to a clearing in the forest where they finally dismounted. Jaskier’s bright blue eyes followed every movement as Geralt set up camp. As the Witcher started the fire, Jaskier let out a frustrated noise. Geralt looked up at him. He had taken off the sash and the doublet and was only wearing a white chemise with some type of flowers embroidered along the hem.

“All right. I cannot take it anymore. What happened to you?” Jaskier said. He gestured to Geralt’s entire person. “I mean, it’s not entirely displeasing but it is certainly disorienting to know it’s you and not see the yellow eyes and white hair. It is particularly odd to be unable to see your scars.” Geralt rolled his eyes. He still had the glamour on. He plucked the leather cuff off his wrist and watched Jaskier’s eyes widen as he understood. “It was a spell. A glamour, right?” Jaskier didn’t really stop to let Geralt respond. “Of course. That is a far cry better than the spell that was on my cuffs. Not that I really got a say in that either, but the point is I would rather look upon your familiar scarred visage than that glamoured green-eyed man.” Geralt tuned him out, returning to his task of setting up the campsite. At some point, after he finished, while he was tending his blades, Jaskier plopped down next to him. “Thank you, by the way,” Jaskier muttered. “I know I said that earlier, but I wanted to be sure you heard me, and we were rushing earlier.” Geralt looked over at Jaskier. He looked so much happier in the flickering firelight than he had on the dais. His blue eyes were brighter, and his smile seemed to actually glow as he looked back. “I honestly wasn’t sure you’d even look for me.” Jaskier looked away, staring deep into the flames.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, unsure of what else he could say.

“I’m glad you did. Though that begs the question, how did you find me? I never told you my real name or the title I abandoned. Well, not before tonight anyway.”

“I heard the soldiers that took call you Lord Pankratz,” Geralt sighed. “The portal was closed before I could get to you.” He set his sword aside. “Jaskier, why didn’t you tell me?”

“About my past?” Jaskier snorted. “Dear Witcher, I would have told you anything you asked of me if you bothered asked, and I still will, but my family is the one topic I will never bring up of my own accord. I don’t know if you noticed, but we don’t particularly get along. My own mother had me spelled in order to keep me in line. My sister would have rather chained me to the chair.” He let out a dry laugh. “My father, incredibly, was worst than that, but I don’t believe I feel like delving into that pile of crap anytime soon.” Jaskier leaned against Geralt. “Compared to them your sour moods are like a balmy day at the beach.”

“So, you ran,” Geralt concluded.

“So, I ran,” Jaskier confirmed. “But that was decades ago. Before I met you. Until that bunch took me, I hadn’t been home since I was sixteen. I never intended to look back. Every now and then I’d use my full name to let the world know that Julian Alfred Pankratz was still alive, despite his family’s best efforts.” The bard fell silent again, resting his head against Geralt’s arm. The Witcher found it strangely comforting to feel the warmth of his bard’s body, especially after so long without the careful touches that accompanied the man’s presence. A warmth twisted in his gut. He shoved it down, not wanting to consider it. Another thought tugged at him.

“Why did they spell the cuffs?” Geralt grunted finally.

“Hmm?” Jaskier lifted his head. “What do you mean? My mother asked the mage to do it to control me.”

“They could have just cursed you.” Geralt met his friend’s eyes. The blue seemed to glow in the firelight. They way they always seemed to glow at night. When they have first started traveling together, Geralt had always chalked up to the bright color catching the light well. Now he wasn’t sure. With Jaskier, he was sure of very little.

“Well, I supposed that would have made sense. I don’t know why they didn’t just put the spell on me. It’s not as though I could have done anything to stop them. Perhaps they wanted the option to easily remove it.” Jaskier shrugged. “It’s late. If we keep talking, we’ll not get any sleep. Not that I don’t like you talking. It’s been wonderfully refreshing.” He flashed a smile. Then he rose and stretched. “Good night dear Witcher. Thank you again for the daring rescue.” Jaskier ambled over to one of the two bedrolls and stretched out. Soon he was sleeping, light snores escaping from his relaxed form. Geralt looked at the bard, drinking in his features. The way the fading firelight made his face glow. The way his brown hair tangled as he rolled over. The way that his hands twitched even in sleep, playing a phantom tune. The gentle curve of his hips. He took a deep breath and he could smell the hints of buttercup, meadow grass, and maple that were Jaskier. He felt himself smile as the warm feeling from earlier rose again, spreading through Geralt’s body. 

Oh.

_Oh._

Geralt rose, suddenly finding himself unable to settle in the face of his realization. He paced quietly, letting the fire die out. Contemplating the feeling that had become so undeniably strong. The only way he could get his mind to leave _that_ feeling alone was to focus on the strange nature of Jaskier’s curse. The cuffs. The only reason you would use an enchanted item rather than a simple curse is if the curse wouldn’t work. But that didn’t make sense. Jaskier should have been fairly easy to spell, though Geralt had no experience with that. He had considered it, at first. Using _Axii_ to get the bard to be quiet, but he had never done it. Yennefer had spelled Jaskier from time to time. She had never commented on Jaskier being hard to spell, though, as far as the Witcher knew, she had only ever done spells meant to heal and help. Curses were different. He had never seen Jaskier under a curse before the cuffs.

Geralt’s eyes caught on the leather band enchanted with a glamour and an idea formed. A glamour was closer to a curse than a healing spell. If someone was resistant to magic, then a glamour attached to an item wouldn’t take without being tailored specifically to them. This one was tailored to Geralt, made to overcome his own resistance to magic. On a normal human, it would work just as well as it had for him. He took the leather band in his hand and quietly approached his bard. The first hints of grey tinged the sky as he knelt beside the colorful man. He carefully slipped the band over thin wrists, then he sat back on his heels and watched. For a second, the glamour shimmered over Jaskier's face, making him look older and hiding the small scars that ran across his exposed chest. Then Jaskier was Jaskier, looking no different than he had. He stirred a little rolling toward Geralt. Geralt paused, waiting for his bard to still again. Once he had, the Witcher took the leather band from his wrist. At least, he had one answer. Jaskier couldn’t be human.

Now, if only he could forget that he loved the damn bard too much to care.


	2. Meadows and Iron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier learns a truth about himself and his family. 
> 
> And maybe even something about a certain White Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all,  
> First, thank you for all the kudos and comments on the first chapter! It's so incredible to see that people are enjoying my writing!
> 
> Second, I'm sorry this took longer than I thought to edit. The next chapter will be up by Friday at the latest. I promise
> 
> Third, I mess with canon and lore a lot in this chapter and the rest of the fic. Not like character altering stuff, but I'm definitely misrepresenting lore to an absolutely ridiculous degree. I'm sorry, but I need it for the story. 
> 
> Thank you all again! I hope you keep reading

Jaskier woke up to the sun already high in the sky and a concerned looking Witcher watching him. He forced himself upright, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Good morning, Geralt,” Jaskier muttered, as cheerily as he could manage, having only just woken up. Geralt hummed in response, golden eyes still staring at him with rapt attention. “Did I start talking in my sleep again?” Jaskier asked. “Or did I roll in ash? I can’t seem to think of any other reason you would be staring at me so attentively unless some mage cursed me while we slept.” Jaskier waved his arms around. Most of the camp was already cleared up, save for his doublet and bedroll. He ignored the doublet and packed up his bedroll, continuing to speculate aloud as to the reason for the Witcher’s attention, periodically earning a huff or grunt from the man. As they started back towards the road, he could still feel the weight of those yellow eyes watching him. Jaskier tried to ignore it, electing instead to ramble as they traveled down the road, wishing he could be playing his lute.

After several hours, Geralt sighed. “Jaskier, I have a question.” He looked down from where he was seated on Roach.

“Ask away, dear Witcher,” Jaskier replied, flashing a smile.

“How old are you?”

“Well, that’s a bit rude, but since it’s you I suppose I can excuse it. I know you think I should know this off the top of my head but traveling with people who don’t age really does screw with one’s sense of time. Let us see, I know I’ve been traveling with you for thirty-two years. Don’t give me that look. I can keep track of that, though, admittedly having Ciri around helps immensely. And I started traveling with you when I was eighteen. So, I suppose that would make me… fifty.” Jaskier stopped moving, his voice trailing off. He heard Geralt turn Roach around to watch him.

“Jaskier?” Geralt’s voice was quiet.

“Sorry, just didn’t realize I’d passed my fiftieth name day.” Jaskier tried to put on another smile as he looked up, but the frown on his friend’s face told him he’d failed. Geralt dismounted gracefully, yellow eyes flashing in the setting sun. “There’s no need to look so concerned, Geralt. I certainly don’t feel my age and it won’t be slowing us down for a few years yet.”

“Is your sister older than you?”

“No, certainly not. She’s nearly a decade my younger.”

“Hmm.”

“What are you getting at? And don’t you dare grunt or hum again. I would like a real answer, since your being so cryptic. Aren’t you the one who goes on and on about Mages twisting words?” Jaskier folded his arms defiantly.

“Did your parents treat your sister better than you?”

“Yes, but I don’t see how that’s relevant, nor is it an answer. I suppose they got soft in the old age or liked what a daughter could bring more than a son. Geralt, what are you getting at?” Jaskier sighed, locking eyes with his Witcher.

“You aren’t their son,” Geralt said with a shrug. He turned back to Roach and tugged on her reins, guiding her forward. Jaskier was frozen for a moment before he chased after them.

“What on earth do you mean?” he snapped. “Of course, I’m their son. How could I not be their son? I mean, I don’t care for it and they certainly didn’t care for me, but that doesn’t make it a lie.”

“Why did you choose Jaskier?”

“Stop changing the topic, Geralt. What do you mean I’m not my parents’ son?” He managed to stand himself in front of Roach, preventing the mare from moving forward for a moment.

The older man shrugged. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. If you were their son, even if they didn’t like you, they wouldn’t have ignored you for thirty-two years. Nor would they have sent a mage out for you. They would have sent a messenger.” He pulled Roach after him as he went around his bard.

Jaskier followed them. “If I’m not their son, then…” he trailed off. He fixed his eyes on the back of his Witcher’s head. “You asked why I chose Jaskier. It means buttercup. They’re my favorite flower. When I was younger, I used to run away to the meadows behind the back gardens and lay in the patches of yellow flowers. Why does that matter?”

Geralt shrugged. “It doesn’t. I was curious.” He glanced over his shoulder.

It was quiet for a few moments, but Jaskier has never been known to let the silence settle. “Geralt,” he said, “What does it mean that I’m not actually related to my family?”

“I never said that.”

“You certainly did,” Jaskier snorted.

“I said that they weren’t your parents.”

“How is that any different?”

“There’s still a family resemblance,” Geralt declared. “The same eyes. The same hair color.”

“Well, now I’m even more confused than I was earlier. In simple words, Geralt, please explain what sort of theory you have rumbling around that head of yours.” Jaskier waited patiently for the other to reply, and he tried to prepare himself for whatever the answer was. Despite that, he still found himself stunned when the Witcher finally answered.

“Your family line is old. When I was looking for you, I did some research into the family name.” Geralt spoke slowly, clearly trying to pick words carefully. “There was a legend I found. It spoke of a gift. From the oldest of the line to bless and create the next generation. A flower that would bloom wild.” Yellow eyes met blue as they stopped moving. Roach bumped Jaskier’s shoulder, pushing him a little closer to Geralt. The bard waited patiently, with wide eyes and a sinking stomach. “The Pankratz line came from the fae, Jaskier. There’s probably very little fae blood left in the others, but not you. You have enough fae blood that curses have to be extra powerful to work on you. Glamours have to be tailored to you.”

“You’re saying that I’m not human,” Jaskier breathed. He stumbled back, only to be stopped by the mare. She kept him from bolting. “But I’ve read about the fae. They don’t look human. I do. I can’t be… I mean, there’s no way that I’m fae.”

“Some fae look very human, even without a glamour,” Geralt sighed. He reached out to Jaskier, but the bard pulled away, sliding along Roach’s flank. He fell to the ground, refusing to look up at the Witcher, letting his thoughts swirl through memories that seemed to suddenly fall into place.

_He was eight, running from his governess in the mid-morning sun. He slipped through bushes and around walls until he was staring at a wide-open expanse of a meadow with flowers of all shapes and colors. He was instantly drawn to a large patch of yellow flowers that seemed to glow in the sunlight. He ran from patch to patch for an hour or so before he got bored and decided to slip back into the gardens. He was shocked to find guards searching the garden for him and a red hue to the sunlight. He dismissed it as having just lost track of time._

_He was sixteen and running through the forest, trying to get away from his family. The forest seemed to bend as he ran until he stumbled out at the next town over. He looked back and the forest was gone. He must have lost track of where he’d been traveling. He didn’t notice the way the forest had stretched towards him or the way the roots had cleared from his path before he could trip over them._

_He was eighteen when he met the Witcher and was captured by elves. They seemed scared of him, but he was human, so that made sense. Didn’t it? He didn’t think about how easily the Elder seemed to come to his tongue, even though he hadn’t studied it for years. He didn’t think about the fear that Filivandrel had shown when handing him the beautiful elven lute._

_He had traveled with the Witcher for years, and still, every time the yellow-eyed man sharpened or drew his sliver blade, Jaskier would feel a sense of dread build in his skin. He thought that maybe it was because he was allergic to the metal. He had never been able to wear silver rings or chains, always preferring gold or other metals. He claimed that was why he turned down the silver dagger the Witcher tried to hand him. Not the sense of dread or the illogical fear that spiked when the weapon was held out to him._

_He had been captured, taken while traveling alone. Being held captive as a ransom for his Witcher. They chained him and beat him. He couldn’t see clearly, couldn’t move at all with the chains on. They pulled and burned his skin where they touched. When Geralt had finally come and freed him, his wrists had been blistered from the iron burning him. He thought it from some torture he couldn’t recall._

_When Pavetta screamed, Jaskier had felt his whole-body shudder. He had pushed towards Geralt, seeking safety from this onslaught of magic. He hadn’t really considered how he was able to move when both the Witcher and Druid were struggling against the power seeping from the young princess._

_He was heartbroken after the dragon hunt. Stumbling along the trail, not truly paying attention to where his feet were taking him. He found himself in the forest again and it felt familiar. He stayed there for hours, walking slowly from tree to tree, playing a steady tune filled with hurt and longing. He was crying too much to see how the branches seemed to wrap around towards him. Or the dark purple flowers that seemed to spring up in his footsteps. Nor did he realize that a year had passed while he was in the forest when he finally stumbled into a town._

_He had yelled with everything in him at the Witcher. Spewed the anger and heartbreak that had been building since the dragon hunt. The Witcher just stood there on the dusty road and took it. Neither of them noticed the way the plants in the lake inched from the shallows, stretching to reach the Witcher. Nor the way the wind seemed to come from Jaskier, not behind him. Even later, when he was once again sharing a camp with Geralt, Jaskier didn’t notice the way his teeth had cut into his lip as though they were too sharp._

_Jaskier and Ciri were alone in the keep while Geralt and the other Witchers were training in the courtyard or hunting for their next meal. Ciri had been trying to practice a spell that she had learned from Yennefer on the willing bard, but the magic kept sliding off. Eventually, the young lioness had gotten frustrated and given up. When they had been traveling together just two weeks later, taking Ciri to meet with Yennefer for the Spring and Summer, and Ciri had tried the very same spell on a bandit who was attacking, it had been far too strong for a human to withstand. They had dismissed it as growth, but two weeks didn’t seem like enough time._

Jaskier was brought back to himself as Geralt rested a hand on his shoulder. It took a moment to realize that the Witcher must have been saying his name. He looked up into the molten gold of his Witcher’s eyes. “Geralt, I’m not human,” he breathed. Geralt nodded. His face was terribly close to Jaskier’s. Full of concern, just as it had been most of the day. Tears blurred the image as Jaskier instinctively leaned his head against Geralt’s shoulder. Sobbing as strong arms wrapped around him and pulled him closer.

“You are still Jaskier,” Geralt mumbled. His voice rumbled against Jaskier as he cried harder. He dug his hands into whatever he could grip, clinging to the other as though he would drift away without him.

“Don’t leave me,” Jaskier whimpered. “Please don’t leave me.”

“Never again.” He paused. His chin rested on Jaskier’s head. “I’d be lost without my bard.” His voice was so quiet that Jaskier could barely hear it, despite being pressed against the source. Jaskier melted into it, feeling safe and secure and loved. Suddenly, he stiffened and pulled back. He looked up into golden eyes, so full of concern and care, staring back at him as though he were the most precious thing in the world. And that was all he needed before he surged up, pressing their lips together. Geralt jolted back for a brief moment before deepening it, sliding his tongue into the bard’s mouth. They broke apart only when Jaskier was gasping for air.

“I love you,” he said between gasps. Their foreheads were pressed together. Jaskier’s arms were wrapped around the Witcher’s neck, keeping him close. Geralt’s hands pressed firmly into his waist.

“Hmm.” A smirk flashed across the scarred face.


	3. The Glamour Falls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for the response. Y'all are amazing!
> 
> Once again, I'm sorry this took so long. I'm really bad at updating regularly but I'm trying and I like where this is going. 
> 
> Keep leaving comments to let me know if you're enjoying this.

Still resting in the dirt, pressed against his Witcher, Jaskier sighed. “Unless you say otherwise, I’m taking that to mean you agree even if you can’t actually say it,” Jaskier muttered. Geralt leaned down and kissed him again. Jaskier chuckled. “Right then. You agree. Now, as much as I’m enjoying the kissing, this is probably not the best time. Nor is it the ideal place.”

“Hmm.”

“Exactly. There’s been a lot going on these past few days. What with escaping my family, that rather confusing glamour of yours, and my being not human.” He chuckled lightly, though his stomach still twisted uncomfortably at the thought. He could brush this off, as he did everything else. At the very least, he could try. “Perhaps we should postpone this at least until we get to an inn. Then we can explore more… carnal pursuits.” Jaskier winked, earning a huff from his Witcher. “Until then, I’d really like to know more about what I am.” Geralt nodded and they helped each other rise from the ground. Roach bumped her head into Geralt’s shoulder, sniffing at Jaskier before he moved away.

“Come on,” Geralt grunted. He walked around Jaskier, guiding Roach forward. Jaskier followed after him, walking closer than normal so that they could brush against each other as they walked.

“So,” Jaskier said, after a few moments. “You’re absolutely sure I’m fae?” Geralt grunted. “Right, so what does that mean, exactly? Because what I’ve read about fae says that they have fangs or wings or horns or some other rather, er, animal-like attributes. Also, they take human children and replace them with their own, which, I have to say is just awful. I don’t suppose that’s what happened with me though. I was just given, right?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighed. Jaskier looked over at him. “I think if the fae that made the promise knew where that path led, they wouldn’t have done it.” His golden eyes flicked over to the bard. “As for the fae, there are different types. I only know what I learned at Kaer Morhen and that was mostly for, well, killing them.” The Witcher had the good sense to look uncomfortable at the thought. “All fae have a strong connection to nature and an aversion to silver. They can’t touch iron. It’s like poison. Most possess strong magic. Many do have wings and fangs and horns, but most that I’ve met glamour them away. Some can change their form. Appear as animals. I don’t know much more than that. I cannot even be sure you are fully Fae.”

“That’s all right. It’s more than I knew before.” Jaskier leaned closer to Geralt, their shoulders bumping. “I suppose that means we should be looking for Yennefer again.” He grimaced at the name. “After all, I’ve got some kind of magic that I have no idea how to use and she’s the only mage I’ll trust, even if I don’t like her very much. Well, her or Triss, but Yennefer is easier to find, what with you and she being bound together. Hang on, you already know where she is, don’t you? That’s where you got your glamour isn’t it?” The Witcher didn’t answer, which was answer enough. “We’ve been heading towards her since we left, haven’t we?”

“Hmm.”

“Of course we have,” Jaskier sighed. Finding that he didn’t want to talk, he wished again he had his lute. Or one of the two he had left anyways. He settled, for tapping the fingerings on his thigh as he hummed the tunes. He didn’t want to try and work on music either because he didn’t have his notebook to write down the things he figured out. Sighing again, he settled into the melodies.

Geralt’s head was still spinning. His normally slow heart felt like it was racing. Every time he looked at his bard, all he could think about was the words that had been breathed like the greatest secret as they parted. Well, that and the truly dizzying kiss that had come before it. Jaskier, on the other hand, seemed to be focused elsewhere. Falling quiet as they walked. Every so often, the bard would walk just close enough to Geralt to brush against his side. Each time sent a shiver through his body, leaving it that much harder to focus on anything other than Jaskier and those three words. Words that he hadn’t said back.

He tried to shove it down. Jaskier was right. Yennefer could likely tell them more about what the bard was. It helped that, by now, Ciri should have returned to her. Ciri could help calm Jaskier the way that Jaskier could always calm her. At this point, the bard and the Lioness even looked to be close in age. Yennefer was exactly where she had been four days ago when Geralt had received his glamour. It was after sunset when they arrived, but she was waiting at the door for them. Her violet eyes scanned the Witcher with amusement.

“I see you’ve collected your bard,” she said, smiling mischievously. “Ciri mentioned that you would be back soon.” Of course she had. She always seemed to know when something big was happening. “Before I let you in, I require payment. The reason, Geralt.” Her eyes were fierce when they met his.

“Him,” Geralt growled, gesturing to Jaskier, who was attempting to fix his chemise so that less of his chest was on display. He had left the doublet at the campsite that morning.

“I need more than that, Witcher.” She folded her arms across her chest.

“He was rescuing me,” Jaskier volunteered. “My family took me and was trying to force me into a marriage. They even went so far as to curse me. Well, they used cursed cuffs on me, which isn’t quite the same thing. Anyways, Geralt showed up and got me out in the nick of time. That glamour you made for him worked wonders. Even I didn’t recognize him until he started fighting.” Something in Jaskier's voice was strained.

“A compliment?” Yennefer frowned. “Are you ill?” She reached for him, but he stepped back, sliding behind Geralt.

“He’s not sick,” Geralt muttered.

“Then his family must be truly awful because if he is paying me compliments there is clearly something wrong.” She had, thankfully, stepped back, letting space for Jaskier to return to Geralt's side, instead of at his back.

“I may not care for you much as a person, but only a fool would argue with your skill,” Jaskier mumbled.

Her violet eyes scanned the bard again until they fixed on his, glinting in the growing light of the moon. “I see. Take care of your horse, Witcher. Ciri is waiting for you both. Follow me, bard.” She disappeared inside the house. Geralt pushed Jaskier forward a bit before taking Roach to the stables.

Jaskier was struggling to brush it off. Even as he sat with Ciri, listening to her chatter about her travels, he found that he couldn’t force it from his mind. He was no longer human. He never had been. With the way Yennefer was looking at him, it was clear she knew something was going on. How much she knew, though, was a mystery. Ciri, on the other hand, was acting as if nothing was wrong. She ignored his quiet, rambling on as he usually did, filling the tense space of the room until Geralt returned. The Witcher took a seat near Jaskier, putting a strong hand on his back like an anchor keeping the bard from floating away.

“Well,” Yennefer said, cutting Ciri off midsentence. “As much as I enjoy hearing about your adventures, Cub, I think the boys have a story far more interesting.”

“Leave it Yen,” Ciri snapped. “It’s not for us to force out of them.” Jaskier started, looking at Ciri who was looking directly at him. She knew. She had known the whole evening. She had let him be quiet instead of asking questions of him like she normally would have. It took a moment to realize that there was a rumbling growl coming from the man beside him.

“It’s all right,” Jaskier managed. He placed a hand on Geralt’s thigh, squeezing gently. The growl subsided, but he could still feel the tension rolling off the other man. “I suppose now is as good a time as any.” Jaskier took a deep breath. “It turns out that I’m not entirely human. If I’m human at all, that is. It seems that somewhere along the line my ancestors made a deal with the fae and I was, er, something like a gift to my parents. Something about a blessing from the oldest of the line to my parents to make the new generation. It really wasn’t all that clear, but it boils down to my being, well, not human.” Jaskier was staring at the floor when he finished. He jumped when a sharp laugh broke the quiet.

“You didn’t know?” Yennefer chuckled.

“Yen,” Geralt warned.

“I’m sorry. I know it must be shocking, but surely you had some clue that you weren’t human. I for one knew the moment I met you, bard. I assumed you were just hiding it from our Witcher, so I didn’t say anything. With your natural glamour being so strong, I sincerely thought it was on purpose.” Violet met bright blue. Geralt shifted beside him, one hand reaching for his medallion.

“What do you mean my natural glamour?” Jaskier could feel his heart beating too quickly. He could feel his body shaking. His eyes were wide. Yennefer looked at him, no longer laughing or smiling.

“You’re serious,” she decided, her voice barely above a whisper. “You have no idea how much chaos you use on a daily basis. You…” She trailed off. Her eyes getting wider. “You don’t know what you look like without your glamour, do you?” Jaskier didn’t respond. No one did. Even Ciri seemed somewhat surprised as Yennefer rose from her chair approaching him like one would an injured animal. “Tell me, Jaskier, would you like to know what you really look like?” Her calling him by his name was uncomfortable, but he recognized it for what it was. She was trying to be considerate. (Not something that came naturally to the mage) Jaskier found himself nodding, letting her press her hand to his. She muttered something in Elder that Jaskier realized meant ‘ _reveal’_. Then it felt like something shuddered through his body, and something fell from around him like a cloak.

Geralt couldn’t stop himself from pulling away as the bard’s glamour fell. Small horns curled up through brown hair and his ears sharpened some. His skin had a slight greenish tint. His eyes were brighter than ever when he finally opened them, but none of that was as shocking as the dragonfly-like wings that hung against his back. They twitched as Jaskier got up and went for the full-length mirror in the other room. There was a yelp, but no one moved to follow him. Ciri was watching Geralt carefully.

“He’s scared, Wolf,” she said quietly. She didn’t have to say it. He could smell the bitter lemon mixing with the buttercups and maple.

“Geralt,” Yen sighed, “as much as he annoys me, I do not want to see this be the thing breaks him. Whether you see it or not, that idiot loves you. And right now, he needs you.”

“Go to him, Wolf.” Ciri smiled gently. Geralt heard another yelp and the lemon scent spiked. He rose and went after his bard. Jaskier was standing in front of the full-length mirror, looking over his shoulder at it, or, more accurately, at the wings reflected in it. He stretched them out and they fluttered, making a quiet buzzing noise. He pressed his hands to his mouth, trying to hide the gasp that escaped him. He hadn’t noticed Geralt watching him.

“Jask,” Geralt started. The fairy jumped and spun to face to the doorway where Geralt was standing. All at once, he looked like he always had. No wings or horns. Just Jaskier. “Are you okay?” Jaskier looked back at the mirror and seemed shocked to see his glamour in place. Geralt found himself reaching for his medallion again, finding it strange that it didn’t react.

“I didn’t even know I could do that,” Jaskier muttered. He ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t even feel them now. I thought glamours couldn’t change a person for real. They’re just illusions.”

“I don’t know, Jaskier.” Geralt started towards him. Jaskier turned away from the mirror and closed the distance between them, burying his face in Geralt’s neck. Geralt’s wrapped his arms around him tightly. “You’re still you Jask.”

“I have wings.” Jaskier’s voice was muffled since he was still pressed against the Witcher. “And horns, Geralt.” He could feel tears on his shoulder, but he didn’t move. “And fangs. I have fangs.”

“So do I,” Geralt rumbled. Jaskier huffed a little laugh.

“I suppose you do.” The bard pulled back, and Geralt let him go. They stared at each other. “And you don’t even have a glamour to hide behind.” Jaskier kissed him but pulled back pretty quickly. “I’m sorry. I should’ve…I mean earlier you didn’t know what I was. Not really. You thought I looked as human as I do now, but I don’t, and you didn’t know and…” Geralt kissed him again. It was quickly becoming his favorite way to stop the bard’s rambling.

“You’re still you, Jask.”


	4. The Fairy's Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier deals with who he is now in his own way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit more angsty but you also get kissing and fluff so I think it balances out. 
> 
> Amlygu is not actually elder, but I couldn't find the elder word. Amlygu is Welsh for Reveal.
> 
> Y'all have been so incredible so far!  
> If you're still here and still liking the story, please drop a comment or leave kudos. It means so much to hear from y'all in any way.

Jaskier did not sleep that night. After he had returned with Geralt to where Yennefer and Ciri were with his glamour on, the other two had looked at him with wide eyes and it had been too much. He had extracted himself from the Witcher’s arms and disappeared into one of the many rooms in Yennefer’s house. At several points after that Ciri and Geralt had gotten close to the door, but neither had tried to come in. For that Jaskier was grateful. When he had started the day, he had been human and contentedly traveling with his Witcher, free from his family. A lot had changed. He found another mirror in the room he had commandeered and spent most of the night just looking at himself in the candlelight. Some of the night he spent pacing, humming as his thoughts twisted his stomach.

As the sun peaked through the window, Jaskier settled himself in front of the mirror again with a determined look. He forced himself to breathe deeply and carefully. Then he said the word that Yennefer had said earlier. Reveal. _Amlygu._ He felt something tug somewhere in his mind. Then he felt the glamour fall. He watched as he changed in the mirror. Small curling horns, greenish skin, pointed ears and wings. He felt his teeth dig into his lip, knowing there were fangs there now. In the dim light, his eyes were glowing.

He forced himself to keep breathing evenly. Counting like he would when he was singing. He opened his mouth, running his tongue carefully over his sharpened teeth. They looked unnaturally white in the mirror. Closing his mouth, he tilted his head, to get a better look at his horns. They were only a few inches long, curling back slightly. They were twisted and pointed and black in his brown hair. Upon touching them, it was clear that they were just as much a weapon as his fangs were, with sharp edges and points. He trailed his fingers over his ears, feeling the slight point to them. It was softer than the point that elf ears had, but it was still clearly there. In the growing sunlight, the greenish tint of his skin could almost pass as a normal pale complexion. Jaskier felt somewhat calmer. Most of the differences under the glamour, he could deal with. He could accept as being a part of him.

Then there were the wings. He turned his back to the mirror and saw his wings as he looked over his shoulder. When they were relaxed against his back, they almost looked like a cape. When he tightened the muscles on his back, his wings would react, stretching out. He tried to extend them and keep them still to look at them. There were four of them, like a dragonfly. When they were stretched out, the light reflected on them. He tentatively moved them, and they buzzed slightly. The faster he moved them, the more they buzzed. He quickly stopped that, feeling as if he may be sick. He had no wish to actually fly with them at this point.

He stared into his reflection, feeling like he was looking at a stranger. But then he noticed the scars on his chest, from a fearful battle with a werewolf that he had not intended to be a part of. Geralt had told him to wait with Roach, but the werewolf had avoided the Witcher, coming around to the mare and Jaskier. It hadn’t taken long for Geralt to get there, but not before several claws had dug into his chest. He had to wear bandages on his chest for a month. He saw his other scars like thin lines of hope wrapping him. Where he had tripped and cut his hand on a rock while bathing in a stream. A small circular one on his shoulder where he’d be stabbed by a hatpin by a jilted lover. He looked at his hands, still callused and thin. The same hands that he had always used for playing and composing. A different shade of skin, but still his. He found himself smiling, far less worried than he had been. His Witcher’s words echoed in his mind. _“You’re still Jaskier.”_ He finally felt like it was true.

The Witcher had long been awake when Jaskier finally opened the door. His glamour was down again, but that didn’t change the feeling relief that surged through Geralt when he saw his bard. He stood quickly, only hesitating slightly before pulling him close. It was odd to have to avoid the sharp horns on the other’s head, but it didn’t really matter. Geralt buried his nose in Jaskier’s neck, breathing in the sweet smell of buttercups, which was so much stronger without the glamour. Jaskier chuckled a bit as he returned the embrace. “Dear Witcher, you don’t need to be so worried. The only threat I’m facing is myself. I think I can take him,” Jaskier mumbled, but he didn’t let go. Geralt let out a huff of air, holding him a moment longer before finally pulling back. He pressed a kiss to the other’s forehead. (He did not have to stand on his toes to do so, no matter what the bard says)

“You brought the glamour down again,” Geralt said.

“As blunt as ever,” Jaskier sighed, but he was grinning. “That I did. It was surprisingly easy. Though I have no idea how to bring it back. Last night, it just happened when you startled me. I think it may take a while to learn how to live with my, er, powers.” He looked away from the Witcher. “Or really, the fact I have powers since apparently I’ve been doing magic and using chaos my whole life.”

Before Geralt could form a response, someone cleared their throat from further down the hallway. “You’re blocking my hall boys,” Yennefer said. She folded her arms across her chest, violet eyes judging them. They stepped apart to let her through. “And Bard, if you want to learn about chaos, I’d be, well, not happy, but willing to help. Fae are rare.” Then she walked past them, disappearing into another room. Jaskier’s eyes followed her, and Geralt felt something twist in his stomach. The Bard stared after her for a long moment, until Geralt cleared his throat.

“Hmm?” Jaskier hummed, turning back to face his Witcher. “Oh, sorry, I suppose I got lost in my thoughts for a moment.” He smiled and his fangs glinted making Geralt want to kiss him. So he did. The bard’s fangs caught his tongue as he mapped out the other’s mouth. His wings buzzed a bit reacting to Geralt’s hands pulling Jaskier closer. Jaskier chuckled slightly when he pulled back. “What was that for?” He raised an eyebrow, blue eyes glowing brighter.

“Wanted to.” Geralt shrugged. He ran a hand over the thin wings, and they buzzed, clearly sensitive. Jaskier shuddered.

“Careful, Witcher. The day’s just begun.” Jaskier’s voice was quiet. The spicy scent of arousal mixed with the sweet scent of buttercups. Geralt clamped his hands on the bard’s hips, moving him back towards the still-open door. Jaskier moved with him, wrapping his arms around the Witcher’s neck. Geralt leaned down pressed a chaste kiss to his soft lips feeling his sharp teeth underneath. He trailed down Jaskier’s neck, pressing gentle kisses as he went. “Geralt,” Jaskier mumbled. The want of the bard’s voice made Geralt purr. “Geralt, love, stop.” The Witcher immediately pulled back, letting his hands fall back to his own sides. Jaskier took a deep breath, steadying himself, but the spicy scent was still heaving in the air. Geralt stepped back, trying to keep from frowning. “It’s not you, so stop pouting.”

“Hmm.”

“Yes, you are, so stop.” Jaskier turned walked around the room, settling in front of the mirror. He stared at his own eyes, silently.

“Jask, talk to me.” Geralt moved so that his reflection could be seen too. Jaskier glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at the mirror.

“I’m a stranger to myself, Geralt. I just need time to learn who I am again. I have no clue how I’m going to react to anything, and I don’t want…I mean, I just need time, love.” Jaskier finally turned from the mirror to the Witcher. “I think I’m going to take Yennefer up on that offer to learn. I’ll stay here for a while and you can go back on the Path. That way I’m not holding you back any more than I already have.” The smile the formed on his face was sad.

“You don’t hold me back.”

“You’ve spent the last six weeks hunting me instead of following your path, Geralt,” he said pointedly. “I’ll be here when you get back. I promise. But I need time and I can’t ask you to just wait here with me.”

“I would,” the Witcher muttered. “For you. If you asked.”

“I know. That’s why I’m not asking.” The bard pressed a hand to the Witcher’s chest, then he left the room. Geralt stayed for three more days before leaving for the Path. He hated how quiet it was as he drifted from contract to contract, wishing he could go back to Jaskier, but not wanting to be sent away again. So he stayed on the Path until the winter was heavy in the air and the snow was pressing his back. He reluctantly made his way back to Kaer Morhen when the paths to where Jaskier was were cut off by the weather. His bard would have to wait for Spring and he hated that.


End file.
